


Into the Fade, Holding Hands.

by LilyRosetheDreamer



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dorian deserves better, Fluff, M/M, Stephano is a massive sap you have been warned, Stephano is bi, it's a two part romance that I wanted to see in game lol, some of these characters are mentioned tbh, yes Stephano doesn’t have the usual last names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 10:44:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19108063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyRosetheDreamer/pseuds/LilyRosetheDreamer
Summary: There's been a few relationships in his time and Stephano has enjoyed them all, keeping all experiences close. But then there is Dorian.And there's never been anyone like Dorian Pavus.





	1. The Fade is a lonely Place

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my very first Dragon Age fic, as I arrived rather late to the party by playing Inquisition only recently! Anyway, this is purely for self-indulgence, as it concerns my favourite mage, Dorian Pavus and an OC of mine as the Inquisitor. If people enjoy this as well; that’s a bonus, I suppose. So please read and leave a comment if you can! Take care.

The Noirs are an old family, neither noble nor desolate, neither mage nor normal. Magic isn’t strong enough for them to be mages, but they have their odd quirks nonetheless. An unusual family of historians and warriors, the Noirs. Which is why Stephano is connected to the Conclave, why he’s sent as a representative to make use of his supernatural strength. It’s why he gains a new quirk in the form of a glowing green mark on his hand that seals holes in the sky and the knowledge he’s the only survivor of the Conclave Disaster, despite remembering very little about the incident.

He’s also gained the suspicion of an entire nation.

Well…shit.

* * *

 

House Pavus is an old house, full of the usual flashes of gold, whispers behind closed doors and stiff-upper lips that contort into sneers dripping with arrogance and pride when someone isn’t quite up to standard. They’re also pure mages – only the best for House Pavus.

Which is why Dorian Pavus, youngest member and only son of Halward and Aquinea, is such a disappointment. It’s why he’s wrestled into submission, caught unawares and imprisoned in the finery of his family’s home. It’s why he hears that his father is going to perform a crazed blood ritual on his sham of a son and, in his panic and desperation, reaches past the drugs and magebane and shackles and destroys his cell. It’s why he’s on the run and stumbling towards Redcliffe (no Alexius please don’t do this!) when the fucking sky opens a hole above his head.

Well…shit.

* * *

 

Time halts when they first lay eyes on each other in Redcliffe. And though that’s a literal statement, for there is debris and dust floating in an eerie emerald shell and the air itself feels solid, Stephano witnesses Dorian smash a demon in the face with his staff and turn to flash storm-grey eyes at him for the first time.

Stephano wonders if the strange Fade magic has stopped the air in his lungs too.

“Good, you’re _finally_ here! Help me close this, would you?”

The Herald would do anything that smooth voice asked him to, honestly. He shakes the thought away and gets to work. The fight is quick, clean, though no less fierce for it. They all work well together, Dorian meshing in as though he’s always fought by his side. Fire sears past his cheek in an orange blaze, never quite kissing it, and Stephano bodily throws a rage demon back through the portal like it was made of wood. The closing of the portal is more strenuous, something he has yet to master and the mage is bright-eyed and speaking before Stephano can even catch his breath to introduce himself. This close, he can see a beauty mark at the corner of one of the man’s eyes, like a tiny star on sand.

“Fascinating!” the mage exclaims in delight, charm oozing from every pore. “How does that work exactly?”

The warrior blinks and the smaller mage actually _giggles,_ a bubbling brook Stephano would love to sit beside and listen to.

“You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and _poof_!” He even makes the motion with his hand.

By the Maker, he’s beautiful, with that quirk of his lips and brash twinkle in his grey eyes. Nice hair and moustache too. Stephano is a romantic at heart and easily distracted by pretty people. It’s a reputation of his back home, though not in a bad way.

“Who…exactly are you?” he asks after a second or two of raking his blue eyes over the mage. Sera elbows him with a cheeky grin and his voice gains his usual confidence as he keeps going. “Are you the one who sent the letter?”

If it wasn’t Felix, then maybe…

“Ah, yes, getting ahead of myself again, I see!”

He steps back, bows shallowly in a way that suggests he’s keeping to an unknown schedule, rather than a show of disrespect. He’s a looker alright and he’s knows it too.

“Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous, at your service. And yes, that was me. Alexius is my old mentor – wasn’t sure if you’d get it or respond actually, but here you are!”

“Cocky one; isn’t he?” Blackwall murmurs behind him in amusement.

Dorian smiles again, put together despite having fought.

“We were supposed to be meeting Felix here,” Stephano fumbles, changing the subject quickly to try and at least get something done today. “Will he be here? Alexius was rather worried when he felt faint earlier,”

The smile slips, Dorian’s eyes shadowed for a minute. It makes him sorry he put it there.

Dorian speaks of a man twisted and maddened by grief. He doesn’t say that the man was a father figure, a family he never had, but Stephano senses it by the shadow that never fully leaves his gaze and it only worsens when the situation does, when they enter the simple Chantry, when Felix begs his father to reconsider with a sickly pallor to his skin, when Alexius furiously throws Stephano and Dorian through time in an angry bid to finally be rid of them both.

It’s silly, but as emerald engulfs them, as Sera and Blackwall cry out his name in fear, Stephano looks at Dorian’s shocked face instead.

* * *

 

Dorian is _brilliant_ , the Herald thinks. He leads them through the warped, terrible future, the one which drenches Blackwall and Sera in red lyrium, anger and hopelessness, one which turns Leliana cold and skeletal. Demons have taken over, ravaging the landscape and Felix is a gibbering loyal dog at his father’s feet.

The heartbreak that creeps on Dorian’s face before he schools his expression firmly steels Stephano’s heart against the broken mage that helped destroy everything. Grief is no excuse for _this._ Everything is jagged and crystallised, his friends sacrifice themselves in a hardened wall of determination (he has to take this nightmare, this inner wailing so their deaths won’t be in vain) and Dorian tempers the amulet, reverses the difficult magic and opens a portal back to their timeline with a pinched, pale face washed out in aqua. He has to bodily pull Stephano away from the slaughter and the Herald lets him.

This future will not happen.

He won’t allow it.

* * *

 

Haven is gone.

The Elder One (Corypheus, a Tevinter Magister, he can’t fucking escape them) has revealed himself, descended on Haven and wiping out everything in a fury of crimson and batshit crazy Templars hopped up on red lyrium. It can’t be easy for Cullen to deal with. Stephano has a hand on the sword on his broad back and Skyhold towers over them all, the cold wind from their new, better stronghold ruffling his auburn hair. It’s a vast stone castle, old and cracked and only known to Solas, wise and strange that he is. He bends the knee in front of the gate, in front of them all (with Dorian hidden in the crowd) as the new Inquisitor and thanks Solas for leading them here from the depths of his being, proclaims him a worthy saviour. Solas is red-cheeked for once, but composed enough to accept the warm praise, the cheers as he stands tall with the Inquisitor. He only asks for paints when Stephano pesters him to accept a boon and Josephine claims it will be done.

That’s the thing about Stephano. He shoulders the responsibility; yet is cheerful and humble. He makes these big and small gestures, but it’s not grandstanding – it’s genuinely Stephano, a tall, large man with a larger heart and a burning desire to make people around him feel wanted and cared for. He will protect them with his body if he must.

Dorian can barely stay away.

Stephano is so _human_.

It helps that he’s rather good-looking and confident to go with it. Nowhere near Dorian’s level, of course, but it’s enough to turn the head of the altus all the same. Especially when he lifts huge stone with an easy smile and rippling muscles.

Dorian REALLY shouldn’t get distracted, should stay away and protect his battered heart like he always does. He must be focused, for the good of Tevinter, whether it likes it or not.

How can he?

How can he when Stephano comes so often to him? He sits and listens to Dorian’s words, truly. He’s fascinated by Dorian’s knowledge, his belief, his passion in a way nobody else ever is back home.

The way he looks at him…

Stephano always has eyes for Dorian.

It’s exposing, it’s vulnerability, it’s…not allowed. Dark corners and dispassionate sex are allowed under the sheets in Tevinter. There must never be a hope for more. This frightens him, panics his fluttering heart. So Dorian talks and banters and looks handsome and throws himself into research and hard work (even if that means going out into the damnable weather of Ferelden). He will prove himself, be worthy of that man in the mirror. He will push Tevinter to be better, he’ll be useful to Thedas and he won’t do anything stupid. Not this time.

* * *

 

Mother Giselle approaches the Inquisitor with a letter, a guarded expression grafted on.

“Your Worship,” she says respectfully, her tone soft as always. This woman was the one that shed hope when he could not, so Stephano always has time for her.

The letter crinkles as she pleads with him to help reconcile a family who may only want their precious son back. Stephano might have agreed, if the words staining the paper aren’t the most manipulative, ugly things he’s ever read. They twist on the page, wrapped in false parental affection and exasperation at their wayward “boy”. Dorian is no _boy_ and Giselle is a fool for falling for this – though it was conniving as fuck to choose her specifically. They have picked someone outside the situation, someone maternal and with some sway, but not too much.

“I will not hide this from him, Madre,” he says after she runs out of words. Giselle is dismayed and he cuts her off.

“No,” he commands, straightening to his full height. She might mean well but interference in other lives like this must not be tolerated. He will be a poor Inquisitor if he allows this to continue under his nose, ironic as that sounds. “Only Dorian can make this decision, no-one else. I’ll give him the letter, thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

Giselle considers his firm tone, then concedes, bowing and hurrying away to tend to the many of Skyhold. He doesn’t know what he would do without people like her despite this meddling – he’ll have to let her know that and put a smile back on that aged tanned face. Given the very few things Dorian has given away (vague words wrapped in shiny bows to distract from what he’s not saying) about his personal life, he will not like this.

Stephano rubs his face and sets off up the stone stairs that wind their way round the library.

* * *

 

Dorian’s already lost Felix today. The letter is tucked against his chest, staying there until Dorian is ready.

Ready…for what?

He’s lost the only family he’s ever known. Alexius awaits Stephano’s judgement in a prison cell and he can’t go down to face him. The thought alone rattles him.

Then Stephano’s mouth falls, guilty that he must grieve Dorian yet again with bad news and the smaller mage wants to smooth his brow somehow. There are freckles on his nose.

He deliberately stows that thought in a box clearly marked NO.

“Show me the letter,” he demands in a tight, controlled voice and the Inquisitor hands it over willingly as though it burns him. Has he already seen it?

That sends a thrill of fear down his spine.

The library is a small comfort, dimly lit at this time of the evening with warm candles and surrounded by dark oak filled with the ever-constant friends he loves. Mae would probably be offended but she cannot be here now, nor would he want her to be.

He can do this alone.

At first, he is still, sharp eyes devouring the words despite everything (it’s been so long damn it all). It’s not long before his feet start to shift of their own accord however, pacing as anger swells, builds. Stephano only has eyes for him again, brow furrowed in concern.

“Know my own son?!” he bursts out suddenly, resisting the urge to throw the paper down to the flagstones and crush it under his heel. “What he knows about me would barely fill a thimble!”

 _Why_? Why does he keep trying to drag him back, to lock him up screaming and clawing at the bars of his golden bird cage?!

Dorian quivers and grits his teeth hard to stop himself from screeching like a cornered wildcat. Stephano’s closer now, one hand moving as though to reach out before aborting the movement altogether.

“I’m sorry,” he says carefully. “I take it you don’t get on that well?”

Dorian laughs bitterly.

“That’s one way to put it,”

He meets Stephano’s periwinkle gaze with a wry smile and makes his decision. Doesn’t mean it won’t be dragged out of him kicking and screaming though.

* * *

 

“Uh oh, nobody’s here. This doesn’t bode well,” Dorian mutters in what seems like suspicious resignation under the boiling wit.

Stephano’s hand twitches up to his sword before he can think better of it. If someone has been sent to attack Dorian, he’ll fight tooth and nail to protect him. The tavern at Redcliffe is cosy, no doubt about it, but Redcliffe is the source of difficulty in Dorian’s life recently. The mark floods under his palm for a minute.

Dorian takes a step forward, taking in every corner.

“Dorian.”

The mage freezes, his clear eyes darting to a figure coming out from the shadows of the stairs.

“Father.”

Father.

That’s his father, a man with an imperious face lined with stress and grey streaking his hair. He has a long, noble nose and is wearing a light green over brown and Stephano vaguely thinks it looks ridiculous.

“So the whole story about the family retainer was just…what? A smokescreen?”

Dorian’s voice is low, already bleeding through with hurt and wariness. Stephano unconsciously moves, towering behind Dorian in a silent show of reinforcement. Halward Pavus walks forward a few steps with his hands together, his eyes dark where Dorian’s are pale. They have a similar profile but the Inquisitor wonders if Dorian looks more like his mother, then promptly decides he doesn’t give a shit.

“So you were told. I apologise for the deception, Inquisitor, I never intended for _you_ to be involved,”

The emphasis on the you despite Halward’s calm exterior tells Stephano everything and his lips purse into a grim line.

“I bet you didn’t,” he mutters.

“Of course not,” Dorian hisses, glancing over his shoulder (he’s wearing the colour of deep flame with a high collar and Stephano loves it) and back to his father. “Magister Pavus couldn’t come to Skyhold and be seen with the dread Inquisitor! What would people think?”

The scorn cuts through the air, creating a pause.

“What exactly is this, father? Ambush, kidnapping? _Warm family reunion_?”

The fury is building over a hint of fear. That’s a lot to unpack, Stephano thinks with a grimace. Later, however. Dorian needs him now.

Halward sighs, as though bearing the wrath of a child having a tantrum and Stephano’s hackles rise.

“This is how it has always been,”

Disappointment in such misbehaviour. Dorian’s fists are clenched and Stephano scowls blackly.

“He has a damn right to be angry from what I can tell,” he shoots back. “You went through all of this charade to get Dorian here. Talk to HIM, not me,”

Dorian rounds on Halward again.

“Yes father,” he adds, his voice taut but waiting to break loose. “Talk to me! Let me hear how _mystified_ you are by my anger!”

“Dorian, there’s no need to -!”

Dorian whirls back to Stephano, molten lava brimming upwards and thunderstorms brewing in his eyes.

“I prefer the company of men,” he scoffs, his voice remarkably low. “My father disapproves.”

Stephano’s eyebrows shoot up, disbelief warring with outrage.

“And why, may I ask, is that an issue?”

Halward’s own eyebrows raise.

Dorian laughs mirthlessly.

“Why should it be? Why should anybody care? I have _no_ idea!”

“This _display_ is uncalled for!” Halward grinds out, sounding truly irritated for the first time.

Good.

“No, it IS called for! _You_ called for it by luring me here!”

“This is _not_ what I wanted!”

“I’m _never_ what you wanted, father! Or had you forgotten?”

Stephano wants to squeeze the life out of Halward for that. For Dorian, bright light Dorian, to feel so unloved…disgusting.

“That’s a big concern in Tevinter then?” he asks anyway, viciously delighting in the exasperation on the older man’s face.

He won’t give him any ground to stand on – he’s clearly not good news.

“Only if you’re trying to live up to an impossible standard,” Dorian answers instantly and his heart goes out to him even as it swells with pride at Dorian’s whip-firm stance. “Every Tevinter family is intermarrying to distill the perfect mage, the perfect body, the perfect mind. The perfect _leader_.”

By the Maker, his pitch is darker than the depths of the Fade.

“It means every perceived flaw – every aberration – is deviant and shameful! It must be _hidden_ ,”

Halward has the gall to hang his head. Stephano is starting to hate him already.

“That’s a ridiculous standard then,”

Dorian blinks, clearly not expecting this support, then shakes his head and hunches in on himself.

“Let’s just go,”

“Dorian, please, if you’ll only listen to me -!”

“Why? So you can spout more convenient lies?”

Halward says nothing, face pained. Dorian surges forward, stabs a gloved finger in his direction.

“ _He_ taught me to hate blood magic. “The resort of the weak mind”. Those are _his_ words!”

Dorian jerks away, turning his back and hunching again, abruptly more open and wounded than Stephano’s ever witnessed him.

“But what was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life? You tried to…change me!”

To Stephano’s horror, Dorian’s voice cracks, tears welling in his eyes as his lovely face contorts in grief. Naked terror swirls in the sea-ridden depths.

“I only wanted what was best for you!” Halward protests.

Stephano knows about blood magic. His family have historical records from all corners of Thedas, squirreled away in safehouses, rescued from dire straits. And that includes Tevinter. He’s read the horrors of what can go wrong, of the perverse joy some get from wrenching another person to their whims (even if that leaves them a drooling vegetable) or pulling the very liquid from their veins as they scream.

The thought of Dorian in such a state tears at Stephano’s core and as soon as those words leave Halward’s lips, the small amount of restraint and patience he has left snaps.

“You wanted what was best for _you_! For your FUCKING legacy! Anything for that.”

Dorian barely finishes speaking as Stephano storms past him and rears up in Halward’s personal space.

“Steph -?”

“How _dare_ you fucking say that to his face,” Stephano snarls, his light charm falling away to reveal the Noir fury underneath. “You _dare_ open your filthy mouth and utter such diabolical language?!”

Both Pavus men are speechless for different reasons.

“Dorian is your _son_. He’s worth a thousand men compared to you! He’s brilliant – full of passion and life! And you wanted to take that away from him?! To make him into your fucked-up slave?!”

Halward’s spluttering, trying to put distance between them but Stephano is a dog shaking the rat in his teeth by its neck and he refuses to let go. Dimly, he thinks that this is probably interfering in of itself, but he won’t stand by uselessly while Dorian wearily gets backed into a corner any longer.

“You’re jealous,” he says softly, showing his teeth in a nasty grin. “Dorian was the one who tried the cage door and saw it was open, not you. I can see it in your eyes – it _eats_ at you,”

“You know NOTHING!”

“I know enough. Dorian is a capable man who can make his own fucking decisions!”

He pivots cleanly, gaze falling upon Dorian standing there limply with an open mouth and huge grey eyes.

Maker, he loves those eyes.

“I hope he flies without you,” he intones, locked on to the Tevinter mage. He needs Dorian to hear this, to absorb it into his being. “He outshines you in every way and I hope you stew about it in your cage!”

Halward is deathly quiet behind them. For the Inquisitor to be so angry…it probably worries him.

Let it.

“Dorian, you said you wanted to go,” Stephano continues kindly now as he puts a hand upon Dorian’s bare shoulder. His skin tingles. “I’m with you whatever you decide, I promise. It’s your choice, as it always should have been.”

Dorian’s trembling, his face pale. Stephano worries he’s gone too far, that Dorian is wary of him or angry at his interference, but Dorian carefully steps away and nods, drained.

“Tell me why you came,” he whispers. Stephano slips into the shadows as best he can. He’s done all he can, all he should for now.

Halward tries to centre himself, clearly shaken.

“If I knew I would drive you to the Inquisition -,”

“You _didn’t_!” Dorian snaps on the verge of tears, one last attempt to make him see things as they were, not some wretched illusion he has built. “I joined because it was the _right thing to do_!”

Stephano’s stomach somersaults and he finally realises right there and then that he’s completely in love with Dorian Pavus. Oh, he’s an idiot. Leliana and the Inner Circle are probably all laughing at him. 

“Once, I had a father who would have known that,” Dorian finishes, tired and hollow.

He’s done, Stephano can gather that. Dorian heads for the door, for freedom and Stephano makes to follow, a wall of muscle ready to plant himself in between.

“Once, I had a son who trusted me. A trust I betrayed,”

It’s a gutted sentence that barely scrapes the surface of Dorian’s pain, a not-quite apology.

Not good enough.

“I only wanted to talk to him, to hear his voice again, to ask him to forgive me,”

It’s sorrowful, calm, trying to pull Dorian back under the grasping waves.

Dorian stops at the first word, tears finally sliding down brown cheeks by the end.

Stephano waits. Whatever you want, he’d said. He needs to keep that promise, no matter how he feels. Dorian puts a hand against his mouth, breathes deeply through his tears and strides out. Stephano follows as he said he would, leaving an old man behind.

Dorian’s profile is silver, bathed in the moon in his nook that night as Stephano professes him brave, restraining himself for the uncertainty and carved shadows on Dorian’s young face. He won't take advantage, not like this.

Dorian calls him best friend and thanks him. It’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be in two parts, thanks to how long this turned out to be and due to how tired and full of aches and pains I am. XD Thank you all for reading this far and I’ll get the next part out tomorrow!


	2. But you take my hand and I know we'll be okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again with the last chapter. It’s been delightful writing this, so I hope it’s been just as nice for everyone to read. Thank you!

He can hear Dorian and Mother Giselle from here. She’s entreating and scolding him in equal measure, and he snipes back petulantly, greatly fed up. Other patrons of the library avoid the scene awkwardly, scurrying away with their research piled in their arms. Solas and Leliana are either away or just studiously keeping silent. Knowing Leliana, she has some idea of what’s going on even now.

Stephano sighs and dives into the thick of it.

“Oh! I…”

Mother Giselle did not expect him to appear, that is obvious. He smiles, pleased that he has that effect on people finally. His nonnina will be very proud when he writes to her next.

“What’s going on here, Madre?” he questions, keeping his voice pleasant.

“It seems the Revered Mother is concerned about my “undue influence” over you,” Dorian says sarcastically beside him, his arms folded, and stubborn posture rooted to the wooden floor.

Stephano wonders if this is how he would have looked as a little boy, being told off for his acts of rebellion – it’s unbearably endearing to think about, Dorian being a mischievous child.

“It _is_ just concern,” Giselle protests as Dorian rolls his eyes. “Your Worship, you must know how this looks!”

Stephano smiles benignly even as his stomach drops in disappointment. He thought Mother Giselle above such prejudices by now, but obviously not.

“You might need to spell it out, my dear,” Dorian mocks, his lips quirked upwards and eyes like chips of stone.

“This man is of Tevinter. His presence at your side, the rumours alone…”

Stephano allows all pretence slip away. This is beginning to piss him off, blood quickening in annoyance.

“What’s wrong with him being from Tevinter? Specifically?”

She rallies, startled, nevertheless. Stephano hopes Dorian is enjoying this as much as he is.

“I’m fully aware that not _everyone_ from the Imperium is the same,”

“How kind of you to notice. Yet still you bow to the opinion of the masses?” Dorian interrupts, unimpressed.

“The opinion of the masses is based on centuries of evidence,” Giselle reprimands immediately. “What would you have me tell them?”

“The truth?”

“The truth is I do not know you, and neither do they! Thus, these rumours will continue,”

“Funny how you say that,” muses Stephano lazily, breaking his way into the back and forth. “And yet you had _no_ problem interfering in his life the first time his father wrote to you,”

The temperature drops a few degrees, such is the coldness surrounding the Inquisitor. Dorian stiffens at the reminder and Giselle flinches.

“You had no problem wanting them to play Happy Families again, despite not knowing anything about their situation. Are you being hypocritical, Giselle? Do the people know how he’s helped the Inquisition?”

“I…see,” Giselle is subdued now, her eyes avoiding his. “I meant no disrespect, Inquisitor, only to ask after this man’s intentions. If you feel he is without ulterior motive, then I humbly beg forgiveness of you both.”

She bows, a small stilted thing and makes her way out in as dignified a manner as she can manage. She need not worry – there are few people left in the library at this time of day, especially as their argument managed to clear out the rest that lingered. The sun’s setting rays bathe the windows and corners in a gentle orange.

It reminds Stephano of home (but with less arguing).

“Well, that was something,”

Dorian’s amused voice beside him brings him back from his homesick daydreaming and he raises an eyebrow at the mage.

“This happens often, does it?”

The concern in his voice is not quite covered by the attempt at banter and Dorian chuckles sheepishly.

“More than anyone tells you. No one knows their own reputation.”

Stephano frowns, something heavy in his broad chest. How many times have people come to blatantly harass the Tevinter mage for something so simple as existing? And how many times have others stood by and said nothing?

“Until someone helpfully informs them,” he grunts and is rewarded by Dorian’s cherished smile.

“There is that. She meant well, if that’s of any concern,”

“People can hurt others even when they mean well,” Stephano murmurs and Dorian tilts his head, studying him for a moment.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but the assumption in some corners is that you and I are…intimate,”

That last word is hesitant and Stephano’s heart flutters. He has been suspicious of their friends’ awareness for some time regarding his fawning over Dorian; to hear of others saying similar things and for Dorian to acknowledge it…it does treacherous things to his mind, throws him off kilter and the words fly out before he can squash them.

“That’s not the worst assumption they could have about us…is it?”

He plays it off as coy but his heart thumps forcefully now. Something is making the air heavy around them, wrapping them in a bubble that quiets the world around. Dorian’s head snaps up to stare, eyes widening a bit.

“I don’t know,” he replies lightly, pupils dilated. “Is it?”

Stephano carefully (he doesn’t want to scare Dorian off) moves closer, head leaning to the side. Dorian doesn’t so much as twitch, but he tracks it.

“Do you always answer a question with a question?”

“Would you like me to answer in some other fashion?”

Clever Dorian, quick to dance with words. Quick to dance into his mind and never leave it. A shy laugh leaves his throat. Fancy that, someone else making him shy for a change.

“If you’re capable,” he answers softly.

 _Please_ is unspoken but Dorian must hear it, for that appears to shatter his final resolve. Something wild flickers, another storm of a different kind and he swiftly moves at Stephano, tip toeing upwards to plant a solid desperate kiss on Stephano’s mouth. It tells him of how he has longed, of how he’s tried to wait.

Stephano wastes no time responding as eagerly as possible, to send his overwhelming satisfaction back.

Who gives a shit about what anyone else says anyway?

* * *

 

Oh.

Oh, _finally_.

That part of his brain is lost in the fizzing in his chest like fine champagne, the feeling of Stephano’s hot mouth meeting his and the way Stephano places warm, safe hands on his hips. Dorian knows he’s given in to one kind of temptation, knows it might be a problem later -!

He stops caring, stops thinking at all as Stephano’s gentle yet enthusiastic response floors him, sends his legs trembling. It’s better than he’s fantasised about in the hidden sheets in his room.

Yet they’re in the library.

This dampens things and he pulls back, watching Stephano’s closed eyes for a moment. The dopey grin…it sends butterflies flapping away.

Oh.

“If you’re capable, he says,” he breathes. “The nonsense you speak,”

Dorian can’t stop smiling, can’t help himself, even as Stephano cheekily points out that the rumours will be true from now on.

“Evidently. We might have to explore the full truth of them later…in private,” he says somewhat wickedly.

Stephano’s eyes sparkle with joy and Dorian’s hand brushes his as he saunters away.

* * *

 

They sway together on the balcony under the stars that sparkle over the Winter Palace. Stephano whispers Antivan endearments in Dorian’s ear and nuzzles his neck, requesting that they order ten silk scarves immediately.

“Then you can show me how to _really_ dance,” he adds, one hand splayed over the small of Dorian’s back.

Dorian’s cheeks burn as the pads of Stephano’s fingers stroke his neck, but the stars reflect in the clouds of his eyes anyway.

* * *

 

An amulet.

Leliana speaks of an amulet, her eyes twinkling as Stephano absorbs the information intently. Dorian’s amulet has made its way through Thedas, ending up in the clutches of an Orlais merchant in Val Royeux. Those masked pricks will be sniffing all over it in no time, teasingly holding it above Dorian’s head for a heavy price and Stephano wants to help. He wants to encourage this tender blossoming thing between them, prove to Dorian just how much he matters.

Willingly, he approaches him about it. He’d thought about getting it back without telling him, as a surprise. Dorian has issues, however, hates people doing things for him and dismissing his words, isn’t very good with surprises. Adamant remains as a reminder of dragons and death, the poisonous toxicity of the Fade and of Dorian clinging to him at night after a restless outburst in the library, whispering how scared he was when Stephano delayed in following them back. Stephano imagines that panic, remembers the guilt of leaving Warden Stroud, of the tilted gravestone with Dorian’s name and fear on it, of hurting Dorian even if he hadn’t meant to, and clings to him as well. Dorian wakes up with begging on his tongue, cries of terror pulled from his throat and hysteria at being tangled in constricting sheets.

Stephano holds him to let him hear his strong heartbeat and doesn’t tell him of seeing flashes of Dorian’s body, bloodied and silent.

So, when Dorian reacts the way he does at the mention of the amulet, Stephano reminds himself of imprisonment and blood magic, reminds himself to be patient and open, and settles.

“How did you hear that?” Dorian asks, eyes narrowed and defensive walls slamming up. “Oh, Leliana. Of course, _she_ would find out,”

His grumbling subsides briefly as Stephano lovingly takes his hand, angling his body so nobody can see. Dorian needs time and, as affectionate as Stephano loves to be, he’ll do all he can to make him comfortable and help him step outside that zone when he wants to.  Dorian doesn’t slip away this time and Stephano rejoices.

“Don’t make an issue of it,” comes the firm warning a second later. “I don’t want someone solving my personal problems for me.”

Proud, fiercely independent peacock, Stephano thinks fondly, rubbing a thumb over his lover’s knuckles. He also hears wary paranoia, old wounds rearing their ugly heads.

“I’ll get the amulet back…somehow. _On my own_ ,”

The emphasis on that makes his chest ache. How often has Dorian been alone in his struggles? Has he had to look after himself when nobody else will?

Yes, he hates Tevinter’s culture more.

“I’m…not entirely certain what it _is_ ,” Stephano admits apologetically, trailing his index finger down Dorian’s hand before subtly pulling away.

“The Pavus birthright, the flashy thing you show peons to make them tremble at your impressive lineage,” explains Dorian with his usual humour and patience. “I didn’t leave Tevinter with much in the way of coin, so I sold it,”

The last part is an admission peeled from him painfully, voice skipping over it in distaste.

“Entirely forbidden, of course, and foolish but I was desperate. I’ll figure something out,”

Stephano hesitates, confused.

“You don’t even like your family. Why would you want it back?”

Why would he want a constant reminder of his oppression?

The look he receives is disbelieving and probably well-deserved really. Fool, asking such an invasive, asinine question.

“Because it’s mine and shouldn’t be…passed around like candy,”

“Is that the only reason?”

Caution gentles his voice, for he only wants to understand, and Dorian bristles some more, shielding against a perceived attack.

“It’s reason enough, leave it be!”

“Sh, sh, I understand, il mio amore,” Stephano hastily reassures, kicking himself as he brushes against his hand again. “I apologise for prying, Dorian. But there are more ways to skin a nug. We’ll think of something, maybe?”

He keeps his tone hopeful, optimistic.

“And I will,” Dorian returns wearily. “I’ll get it back. I lost the amulet! I may not have your resources, but I can’t ask you to -!”

He breaks off, frustrated and Stephano can finally pick out where this is going and why.

“You have too many people asking you for everything under the sun and I won’t be one of them!”

 _I can’t_ is left unsaid.

Stephano watches him for a while, letting Dorian’s desperation die away. Dorian rubs his chin and winds his fingers together as a breeze curls round his glossy hair. Then the Inquisitor offers a gloved hand, matching the tailored midnight and silver outfit he’s wearing – one of Dorian’s favourites.

“Come with me, please?”

Dorian’s gaze flits, the ever-present edge flaring up again and the candle flames grow brighter to their left. He’s more stressed than he should be.

“This will be private, I promise,” he confirms as tenderly as he can.

Dorian motions with his head and follows him silently up to his quarters, dodging the nobles that hang around in the main hall like limpets embedded in a rock. Stephano shuts the heavy oak door behind them, sending dust motes up into the sun’s rays, and Dorian swallows.

They must have this conversation now, rather than later, when the pain has had more time to make another layer.

“Dorian,” Stephano lets all the love he has for him ebb through. “You are not alone,”

Dorian’s expression is the same as the evening when they first had sex, when Stephano told him he could stay the night if he wanted to; bewildered, unsure, not quite daring to believe his good fortune. Stephano gestures for Dorian to sit, if he wishes to, and Dorian inhales and sits anyway. He gasps again (not too much noise just in case someone hears) when Stephano gets down on his knees in front of him and places both big hands on Dorian’s thighs.

“You are not alone, but there’s so much you’re not saying here. You can ask _anything_ of me, big or small. It will _never_ be a bother, nor take up too much of my time or take away from anyone else. I may not always be able to reply straight away but that’s _never_ your fault,”

Dorian’s shivering, his stare far away and hands balled in his lap. Stephano takes one in both of his, uncurls it and kisses it smoothly.

“I will always listen to what you have to offer, when you want to say it. And I don’t give a fuck if people want to gossip about it!”

“I don’t want to be in your debt,” Dorian murmurs vaguely, his gaze and mind trapped somewhere else, in another time where people grabbed his freedom and held it to impossible conditions. “I don’t want to be known as the Tevinter Magister who is using you,”

Even now, he thinks of Stephano, of the Inquisitor’s reputation.

Stephano despises whoever made his beloved feel this way. Nobody should feel this way. Dorian has rarely ever received support, has fought to survive and Stephano wants to give him the moon.

Baby steps, however.

“Come back, Dorian,” he hums, large hands cradling the mage’s cheeks. Those pretty eyes refocus on him. “I’m not going to ask for anything in return. My love and presence are unconditional. Fuck whoever told you this is how relationships work! It isn’t, I swear!”

He balances on his haunches, the cool flagstones seeping through to his feet, seething into space as Dorian mulls his words over.

“Where I come from,” his lover’s voice starts, haltingly, causing Stephano to make eye contact. “Anything between two men…it’s about pleasure. It’s accepted behind closed doors but taken no further. You…learn not to hope for more. You’d be foolish to,”

A hesitant touch, tucking his auburn hair behind his ear.

“You are a rare unicorn, you know,”

Stephano keeps hold of Dorian’s hand but preens, tossing his head back as though he’s showing off.

Dorian laughs.

He loves that laugh.

“Dorian,” he says gently, rubbing both hands over Dorian’s warm skin. “Whatever you decide about this amulet, I will be behind you. I _won’t_ interfere but I _will_ do my best to help. If you want me to come with you and watch you eat the merchant alive, I will. If you want a platoon of guards, you’ll have them. And if you just want to go alone and for me to pray for you while waving a white handkerchief out the window, I _will_! There are _two_ of us here, not one,”

“Look at you, making me out to be special,” Dorian replies thickly, a watery laugh filling the space between them.

“You are. I adore you,” Stephano says simply and crushes Dorian’s shaking body against him.

* * *

 

Dorian gets the amulet back.

Stephano sits back with wine at a nearby table and cackles to himself as Dorian stalks over to his prey and dances round the merchant’s tales with glee. His words, his quicksilver mind, reduces him to cinders and the amulet hangs round his neck once more in no time. The gold gleams against tanned skin (it feels right despite the history behind it) and Stephano wastes no time congratulating him and whisking him back to Skyhold. Their subsequent session of lovemaking is heated and matched to the beat of their pulses. The candles flare and wink out, leaving them in the company of the fireflies outside the bedroom window. It’s everything he’s never had.

Stephano winds his arms round him in a cocoon and asks Dorian to stay, to be more.

Dorian does.

He’s not afraid anymore.

* * *

 

There’s an eerie silence in the wake of Corypheus’ death. Rubble covers the landscape, dotted with blood and crumpled corpses. His Inner Circle approach, bruised, torn up and probably scarred in some form or other.

But they’re alive!

Holy shit, he’s alive!

Stephano drops his sword with a clang into the earth, mud and blood sticking to his skin. His body aches and the rain is lighter now. He turns his face upward into it.

“Victorious, I see,”

Morrigan’s holding her side and Stephano wants to ask if she’s alright.

“And you’re alive!”

The joy, the relief in Dorian’s voice stops him dead. His world abruptly only consists of Dorian and ignores the knowing glances.

Maybe it only ever did.

“And I’m alive! Incredible, isn’t it?”

Dorian’s beaming (a cut dripping from his cheek, his hair mussed for once, Stephano is pretty sure he’s limping and that won’t do), a blinding sun that scorches away any remaining darkness bogging him down. Stephano knows what he wants to do now, more than ever before. He breaks into a run, leaping over rocks and scooping up an equally giddy mage, swinging him around into a bruising kiss and clutching at him wildly.

Sera and Cole cheer with various other noises of mock disgust or good humour from the rest. They’re happy though, truly and utterly. Their support only fuels the reunion.

Grey diamonds glitter with tears as Dorian whoops with feeling, his arms spreading out, trusting Stephano to take his weight as the roar of victory swells to encompass the entire Inquisition.

They’ve won.

Stephano will never forget this, even when there is physical distance between them in the coming years. They love each other with the strength few others possess and the whole world is theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all like this – this was way longer than expected but worth it! Thanks goes to my playlist for getting the right feeling in every paragraph, lol. And thank you all for the support!


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